Pain Like Drugs
by LoverBoyWonder
Summary: "Every man has his secrets, Holmes, even you and I..." Watson's other side. Slash, torture. NOW COMPLETE! I don't own it.
1. Chapter 1

Pain Like Drugs (A Holmes/Watson Story)

Holmes was awoken one night to the sound of running water. The sink in the kitchen was on. He detected a strange combination of scents that were at once both revolting and alluring- the scents of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, a silvery metallic scent that the detective believed to be blood, and the scent of Watson that Holmes knew so well.

Holmes rolled out of bed and walked to the kitchen where Watson was, of course, washing his hands of blood in the sink. Holmes crept up and slipped his arms around the doctor's waist from behind. "To what do I owe this late-night pleasure?" he murmured into Watson's ear.

Watson closed his eyes and smiled; a tight, secretive smirk, as he leaned back into Holmes' chest. "Ah, Holmes," he said. "Do not concern yourself with such petty details; I am here because I enjoy your company, is that not enough?" He turned to face the detective, and drew their bodies closer. "Hmmmm," Holmes breathed. "It would appear that you are withholding something from me, dear Watson…" Watson stretched languidly. "And what does it matter? Every man has his secrets, even you and I…" and he affectionately leaned over and ghosted his lips over Holmes' neck as an indication of their shared secret.

"Dear Watson, secrets are my business and my lifestyle," Holmes replied. As he said it, Watson pushed the detective against the wall roughly, pulling a scalpel from his pocket and pressing it ever so lovingly to Holmes' neck, drawing a single drop of blood. Holmes' breath hitched and his breathing became erratic. "Don't question me," Watson hissed. "Don't ask me where I've been- only be here when I return." "Ahhhh," Holmes moaned softly in agreement, and Watson nodded, pleased. "That's better," the doctor said, satisfied, taking the scalpel and moving to return it to his pocket- but Holmes grabbed his wrist.

Holmes brought Watson's hand, still holding the scalpel, up to his neck once again, tracing a thin red line down his neck from his ear to his shoulder. "I am yours," he whispered. Watson bent down and licked at the blood on the detective's neck. "Yes," he replied, voice steady, "you are mine."

Watson meticulously undid all the buttons on Holmes' vest and slid it off. He did the same with the detective's shirt, dropping it unceremoniously in a pile on the floor before pushing Holmes up against the wall again, harder this time. Watson grabbed Holmes' arm, twisting it so that he could see the pale flesh on the underside of the detective's arm.

The doctor picked up his scalpel again and began to carve something into Holmes' arm. Holmes shuddered with pleasure as warm blood trickled down towards his hand, Watson stopping his work every few seconds to catch it with his tongue before it could fall and stain the carpet.

Finally, Watson finished and stepped back. A bloody "W" was etched into the detective's flesh, a symbol of Watson's possession. Satisfied, the doctor grabbed Holmes and pulled. They fell to the floor together, Watson rolling them over so he could be on top. He began to kiss Holmes hard, biting at the detective's lip hard enough to draw yet more of the lovely scarlet nectar from Holmes' veins. Watson trailed his lips down the detective's neck, licking and nipping at the flesh, leaving marks. He dug his nails into Holmes' chest, and Holmes arched his back in pleasure.

"Dear Watson," Holmes practically moaned. "You are a monster…to enjoy inflicting such pain…" He hissed as Watson bit down on his earlobe. "Then you are even more a monster, dear Holmes, to enjoy receiving it," Watson answered, in control. He stood, pulling Holmes up with him, and then the doctor practically dragged Holmes into the bedroom and shut the door.

Holmes awoke the next morning fairly unable to move due to the handcuffs binding his wrists. He sat up with some difficulty, and noticed the key sitting thoughtfully just out of reach on the table next to the bed. He stood up, noting Watson's absence, and struggled a bit before finally breaking free of the cuffs and stretching.

The detective examined his body, appreciating his numerous new cuts and bruises and admiring the traces of dried blood on his chest and arms. He turned his arm over and traced his fingertips lightly over the clearly defined "W," shivering at the lovely stinging sensation his touch caused. Holmes then cleaned up and got dressed, walking outside as he unfolded the newspaper and began to read.


	2. A Murder on Baker Street

A woman had been murdered, brutally, not too far away. No clues, no leads, nothing had been found. Holmes was, of course, intrigued. He hailed a carriage and traveled to the scene of the crime. When he got there, he saw that Lestrade, Clarkie, and the rest of Scotland Yard had already been combing the area for the better part of three hours. They all looked rather tired and disappointed. Scared. Holmes approached Lestrade.

"May I see the body?" he inquired politely of the policeman. "Of course," Lestrade replied tiredly, "but I doubt you'll find anything new; we've gone over everything so many times…" "Yes, well," Holmes said mildly, "Another mind on the case can't hurt." He walked over to the corpse and began to study it. Immediate cause of death: Asphyxiation, Holmes thought to himself, cataloguing marks, discolorations…anything about the body that might be of importance.

Then Holmes noticed the thin red lines on the woman's face and wrists. They were so pale they were almost invisible; small, shallow cuts all over her body, healed but visible in death, scars, marring the otherwise beautiful body. They were perfectly straight, suggesting the use of a tool…like a scalpel…and suddenly, Holmes knew the answer. The person who had killed her must have been a monster.

Lestrade approached when he saw that Holmes had straightened up. "Did you find anything?" he asked. "No," Holmes said after a pause, "Nothing. This case is…most interesting." "Yes, well," Lestrade said, uncomfortably, "do let us know if you think of anything." The policeman had never known Holmes to find absolutely nothing- that was why he was allowed to help with cases. This one must be infinitely more difficult than they had first thought.

Holmes, just as uncomfortable as Lestrade, nodded a good-bye to the men and left quickly. He took a carriage back to 221b Baker Street and practically ran up the stairs to his rooms, slamming doors behind him as he went and causing Mrs. Hudson to yell up to him. "Not now, nanny," Holmes yelled back, and entered the apartment. He began to pace back and forth.

Back

And

Forth.

Back

And

Forth.

He heard someone clear their throat and he looked up. Hours had gone by, and it was late afternoon. Watson stood before the detective, an expression of amusement on his face. "Glad you could join me, dear Holmes," he said. "The feeling is mutual," Holmes replied, his tone even.


	3. Questions and Answers

Watson reached out, taking hold of Holmes' wrist, and pulled the other man in. He looked at the red markings on the detective's arm and pressed his cool lips to the cuts, making them sting. Holmes shivered. Then Holmes remembered what he wanted to say, and he gently pulled his arm back, stepping away from the doctor. "I will not ask where you have been," he said, his voice wavering but then getting stronger, "I will never question you, and I will always be here so long as you return. But tonight, dear Watson…" he lowered his voice. "Tonight, I know your secret."

There was a silence. Watson broke it. "I should have known- nothing escapes the great detective," he said almost mockingly. "I trust you did not…ruin the surprise," Watson continued, pulling his jacket off and dropping it on the floor. He closed the distance between them and held Holmes close. "And if you did I will damage you beyond repair," he whispered sensuously into the detective's ear.

"I told no one," Holmes whispered back, eyes shining. "I considered it. But I did not." "Hm. Well. Such…consideration…is the first step to…disobedience," Watson said, a dark smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And disobedience must be…punished."

Holmes whimpered. "Watson," he said, his voice pleading, sounding most unHolmes-like. "Ah, ah, ah," Watson chided, tilting Holmes' face up with a guiding finger under the detective's chin. "You're not getting out of this one by batting your eyelashes at me…Sherlock." Watson allowed himself a grin and Holmes knew that the doctor wasn't kidding. His eyes widened and he tried to scramble back, but he stumbled and fell back onto the floor. In a flash Watson was on him, pulling at the detective's vest, his shirt, whatever the doctor could get a hold of. Soon, a fully clothed Watson straddled a shirtless and shivering Holmes. Watson let his eyes travel across the porcelain skin, drinking in every minute detail, every flaw and blemish marring the otherwise perfect flesh.

Watson mapped out an intricate pattern of roads and webs across Holmes' body, following the routes he traced with his tongue after he pulled his long-fingered hands away. Holmes was moaning, his eyes shut tight. Finally Watson pulled out his scalpel once again. As he moved his head away and sat up, Holmes opened his eyes, unsure of what was going on. "Watson? What are you-" Watson shut the detective up with a hard kiss, biting his lips and murmuring a warning: Don't speak.

Holmes was only too willing to comply as Watson bent once again and kissed a spot on the detective's chest, somewhere under his right nipple. Holmes then howled as the doctor cut a deep, horizontal line across the same place. Holmes hissed and bucked, his back arching, and Watson's hands dug into his waist; Watson was watching him writhe with an expression of amusement.

Watson allowed that for a moment, but when the detective had calmed down a bit and lay panting, the doctor licked his own finger and slid it into the wound. Holmes yelled, in pain or pleasure; Watson wasn't sure which anymore. He pulled at the skin, making the wound drip blood. "Would you be a martyr?" he whispered softly, almost gently, into Holmes' ear. "Would you die for my sins?" Holmes was unable to answer. Watson pulled his finger from the cut and licked at the blood on it thoughtfully. "I think not," he said and stood up. He pulled his coat on and walked out, leaving Holmes, bleeding, on the floor. Holmes stayed there until he had decided. He would change the answer to Watson's question. No matter the cost.


	4. Dark Alleys, Dark People

**A/N: Thanks to all my faithful readers and to everyone who reviewed! Sorry it takes me so long to update, I've had final exams and writer's block:/ anyway, here's chapter 4. This one's short, but we're almost done! Keep reading & reviewing!**

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Dark Alleys, Dark People

Holmes wandered, desolate, through the empty streets of rainy London. There was only one person he knew of that could get him what he needed. He flashed a glance at a raven that perched on a street sign, and the bird let out a loud call as it took flight, its dark wings sodden and dripping. Holmes looked down at his feet again as rainwater streamed off his head and ran into his eyes. His shoes were nearly soaked through, and his feet were freezing. He felt a small twinge of pain as he stepped in yet another puddle of cloudy water, and he shivered- but not from the cold. Was he a monster? He didn't know anymore. All he knew was pain- but he had learned to love it, learned to savor the way his skin burned and tingled, the way his heart beat faster when his body was wracked with spasms. There was a fire, burning somewhere in the depths of his stomach, like a dark snake that uncoiled itself whenever he was in pain. It made him need more; it made him dependent, brought the great detective to his knees with _want_, desire, _lust_ for the pain.

The pain was usually Watson.

Holmes didn't know when he had begun to love the doctor. Perhaps when they first met. Holmes had _known_, he had realized, that there was something _special_ about this doctor. Something hidden. One night, when Holmes was drunk and fuzzy with opium, he somehow ended up in the doctor's arms. That first night was like heaven; neither of them knew what they were doing, what they would become. Holmes soon discovered that Watson was, in fact, a different kind of doctor. After clinic hours, when they were alone and no one could hear them, Watson would hurt him. Hit him. Cut him. Bite him. Anything that would make Holmes yell, make him go crazy with pain. And Holmes enjoyed it to the point where he would beg for more.

Holmes came to the entrance of a dark alley and walked towards it, allowing the darkness to swallow him up. "Who- who's there?" came a stuttering, nervous voice form the blackness. "You know me," Holmes replied confidently. "Y-you!" The voice sounded startled. Holmes heard something moving about, and then a figure holding a lantern appeared in the dark, hunched and shivering. "Aye," the figure said with a nervous grin. "B- been a while, eh, ma- master Holmes?"


	5. Premeditated Decisions

**A/N: Welcome back to all continuing with this story, and a general welcome to anyone who recently picked it up. as always, faithful readers, i am quite amazed (and grateful nonetheless) at the amount of attention my humble story has recieved. i'm flattered that people took the time out from their busy days to read my story and leave a comment for me to later fall upon like a starving animal. i'm anticipating two or three more chapters; this is it, the bitter end, the finale...thank you to everyone who has commented, reviewed, or invisibly stalked this story from the very beginning (i know some of you are out there, and it is much appreciated, my lovely readers). thank you everyone, you helped make this possible. if you're lucky, i'll post chapter six tonight as well.**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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"Don't use that name," Holmes hissed, eyes darting about. "A- apologies," the man said fearfully. Holmes shook his head. "I require something…special. What have you got?" The man gave Holmes a wide smile. "Ah, for your v- ventures, you might w- want this…" he brought out a small pouch filled with a white powder.

"What is it?" Holmes asked, intrigued. "It m- makes you feel as if y- you're in love, y- you'll be giddy as a schoolboy in n- no t- time," "Hmmm…" Holmes considered it. "Not this time, no. But thank you nonetheless, old boy," the detective said, patting the man on the back. The man flinched at the touch. Holmes turned to go. "W- wait! I have j- just what you n-need!" Holmes slowly rotated so he was facing the strange man once again.

"Here y'are, m- master," the man said, holding out a small bundle of what appeared to be leaves. Holmes approached the man, frowning. "What form of madness is this? These are not…what is it?" "Ah, s- sir, it is as you said. A f- form of m- madness! This, m'lord, is p-poison of a most d- deadly variety. This, milord, is _h- hemlock_." The man leaned closer to Holmes, winking conspiratorially.

Holmes' eyes widened, and he seemed to be observing something off in the distance. "The poison of Socrates," he whispered. The hunched man straightened a bit. "Wh- what?" "Oh, nothing," Holmes replied absently. "How much?" "For y- you, sir…" the man leaned in and whispered a figure into Holmes' ear. Holmes considered it and nodded, pressing the money into the man's hand. He took the strange plant with him as he left the darkness of the alley. He hailed a hansom and returned to 221b Baker Street to commence his planning.

It was another one of those days where Mrs. Hudson was continuously frustrated in her attempts to converse with the detective, and Holmes was equally frustrated by her repeated advances and not-so-subtle hints that she wished to carry on a coherent conversation. Eventually Holmes exploded with ill-covered anger and retreated to the deepest recesses of his perpetually darkened rooms. Mrs. Hudson could hear the creak of the floorboards and the scrape of the detective's shoes, which he had neglected to remove, as he paced, uninterrupted, for hours. She did not know what he was doing, and of course Holmes would never tell her.

Upstairs, in the vacant rooms, the very air seemed to be _waiting_. For what, Holmes was unsure. But he could not shake the feeling that _something _was bound to happen. Tonight. He paced, aware that Mrs. Hudson could probably hear him. He stopped every few minutes- or was it hours? -to stare at the little bundle of leaves he had bought from his contact. Eventually, Holmes shrugged. Thinking was pointless. The decision had been made weeks ago- in fact, it was decided the day he met Watson. He would do whatever it took. He undid the neat tie that held the leaves together. Holmes rummaged around for a few minutes, but then found what he was looking for: Watson's old mortar and pestle, the one the doctor had used previously for his practice but had been worn down by its constant exploitation and forgotten in Holmes' derelict apartment. Holmes placed the leaves ever so gently into the bowl and began to grind them into powder with a cold resolve.


	6. The Last Time

**A/N: This is not the end, faithful readers. More to come.**

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It didn't take long before the leaves were transformed into a fine powder. Holmes briefly exited to the kitchen, whereupon he happily discovered an unopened bottle of wine and set about finding a suitable glass. Usually, the detective could not be bothered with minor annoyances such as the absence of a clean glass; however, this was important and simply wasn't _done_ with any old dirty glass. Holmes uncorked the wine and poured a healthy amount into the glass. He took a sip, as if to test the flavor and determine if it was suitable to pass his lips; it quite obviously met with his approval as he closed his eyes, the better to savor the fruity taste of the liquid running down his throat. The detective allowed a small sigh to escape his throat- a sigh that encompassed his wishes, his dreams, whatever he had once foolishly hoped the future would hold for him, him and possibly Watson…but those dreams were from a time far before he knew Watson's secret.

Holmes went back to the room where he had been working with the hemlock; he measured out a generous amount of the powder and poured it into his wine glass. He looked around and quickly discovered an old and tarnishing silver spoon, which he used to transfer the powder into his glass and stir the wine so that the powder was absorbed. Holmes waited for the liquid to settle, idly watching the ripples splayed across the surface of the red wine. Holmes thought, rather distractedly, that the wine looked like blood…how ironic, the detective realized with a twist of his lips.

He stood up, holding the drink carefully in his hand. He took a deep breath and poured the contents of the glass into his mouth, wondering if he was doing the right thing. It had to be the right thing…after all, he was doing it for love…how could that be wrong? Holmes sat down again and sighed, resuming his thinking.

It was only a few moments later when Holmes realized he had an intense pain in his abdominal region. Had he had that cramp all this time? He didn't think so…he got up to go to the bathroom, but it seemed as though he had stood up far too quickly. He felt nauseous, and his legs felt weak, like they wouldn't be able to hold him up. Holmes straightened, and then vomited suddenly onto the floor. He almost collapsed right there, but the detective somehow managed to keep himself on his feet and stagger into the bathroom. He grasped the sink and stared into the mirror, groaning. His pupils were dilated far beyond normal parameters, and Holmes realized with a start that his body was shaking violently. A few choice expletives flitted across the great detective's mind, and he could feel hysteria rising steadily like bile in his throat. His eyes flickered back and forth nervously. _This was ridiculous. Why was he nervous? Something was wrong…or was it? _

Holmes realized at once. _The hemlock._ The deadly poison was taking its toll. Holmes calmed down a bit, and made his way, with much difficulty, into the bedroom and shut the door. He fell onto the bed as if he was a puppet whose master had cut his strings. He suddenly thought of the first night he had been with Watson, and he smiled slightly at the memory. But then he remembered hoe the doctor had changed, and the smile turned into a flat line as a few stray tears fell from his eyelashes. Holmes closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He then released the air for the last time.


	7. The Breaking Point of the Mind

**A/N: a bit of Watson's POV here, leading up to what i hope to be the final two chapters. i recieved many wonderful reviews for the last chapter; thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! here's chapter 7, and please keep up with the wonderful motivation;) seriously, though, it's great, and i love you guys! keep reading!**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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Watson slowly walked up the stairs at 221 Baker Street, relishing the sound each individual step made as he climbed steadily to apartment b. He appeared calm and collected; in reality, he was anything but. Underneath his mask of professionalism and cool demeanor, the doctor was shaking with anticipation; he could feel Holmes' skin under his hands, hear the detective moan…Watson shook his head. _Control_. He wasn't even inside the apartment yet.

The doctor approached the door and knocked gently. He waited a moment, but the door remained shut. Watson tested the handle; it was locked, which was strange, as Holmes had expected, probably even wanted, Watson to come. Watson smiled ruefully. He loved Holmes in his own way, he really did…but he hadn't expected to become so serious about one of his playthings. He wasn't _serious_ about Holmes, the doctor admonished, it was just a game. He liked to give pain, Holmes enjoyed receiving it. Theirs was a business agreement in which each man gained the object of his deepest, darkest desires.

Watson sighed and called softly, "Holmes. I know you're in there…open the door." When no response came, Watson knocked a little harder, and called a little louder. "Holmes. Are you hiding in there? Open the _door_, Holmes!" Still there was no reply from Holmes. Watson let out a sound of annoyance, and rooted through his pockets in an effort to find his spare key, which he kept for emergency purposes only, of course. Finding the key, the doctor inserted it into the lock and turned it impatiently, barely opening the door before bursting into the apartment.

"Holmes!" Watson called. Then his voice softened. "Sherlock…come out, come out, wherever you are…I came to visit you…" Watson was frustrated and began to feel the first tendrils of anger brush the edges of his consciousness. "Sherlock," he hissed. Watson crept through the kitchen, the sitting room, and went into the bathroom. Where was Holmes? Surely he was not out. He had been expecting Watson, the doctor was sure of it.

The only thing that seemed out of place to Watson was the empty wine glass on the bathroom counter, next to a tarnished spoon. Watson had no explanation for this phenomenon. Holmes was either hiding, _and for good reason_, Watson thought with a wicked smile, or…Watson's eyes widened and he looked again at the glass near the sink. _No_. Sure enough, when the doctor studied the glass, he could see a strange residue around the inner curve.

Watson bolted into the bedroom, shoving the door open and barely feeling it. "Holmes!" he yelled, more frantically now. "No!" he cried upon seeing the body on the bed, an ashen pallor affecting the skin strangely. The anger now fully enveloped his mind. Riding a red-tinted wave of madness, Watson grabbed the body and shook it. He slapped Holmes' face. He took out his scalpel, slicing open the rock-hard torso and peeling the skin back, trying to resuscitate the frozen heart with his bare hands; his stiff, uncooperative hands. _No no this wasn't supposed to happen no not him no anger not him no please MONSTER _The last thought hit Watson so hard that he let out an inhumane howl of pain. _Why did it hurt so much it was only a game he was only a plaything he was right he was a MONSTER he was beautiful red blood MONSTER beauty shadows darkness red _Watson shivered uncontrollably as his mind went into overdrive.

The doctor staggered off the bed, locking all the windows and doors to keep anyone and everyone out of the apartment. That night, he carefully mutilated the beautiful body that was only a game. Watson burned it and swept the ashes into a bag, cautiously bringing it outside and leaving it with the rest of the garbage when he was sure that no one was looking. He slept in Holmes' bed that night, which was surprisingly spotless. It was the one thing the detective had kept meticulously, fanatically clean at Watson's insistence; and though it had observed much carnage that night, postmortem wounds don't bleed.


	8. Before the Dawn

**A/N: sorry guys, i lied. this chapter wasn't supposed to happen! but i altered my ending a bit, and so this had to be written. nothing exciting happens in this chapter, sorry about that...anyway. we're so close to the end! thanks for all the love on the last few chapters; i'm up to 16 reviews so far! keep it up guys, it's great! love you, this totally wouldn't be possible without you:D**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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It was during the small hours of the morning in which the police received an important telegram regarding their latest case, the case of the Baker Street murder. Chief Inspector Lestrade was called in immediately to review the message, which contained an immense tip-off and was regarded as being far too important to let the night policeman take care of. The inspector arrived at the same time as his subordinate Clarkie, which caused some murmurs amongst those members of the force that had their suspicions and gathered on weekends to drink and place bets. Lestrade read the message at once, concern clearly visible on his face.

"Lestrade," the telegram read. "If you are reading this, then I- the detective Sherlock Holmes- am almost certainly dead. Do not bother to look for my body; I should imagine it will never be found. But no matter- I wish to tell you some things about your murder case. First of all, I must confess that when I told you I had found nothing on the body, no leads pointing to the perpetrator, it was a lie. I implore you to forgive me; it was quite a shock to me and I felt I could not reveal the information…it was a mistake, and I beg you to forgive me this in death. If he is not caught…even more dreadful occurrences will be in London's future. On the body, I noticed several wounds; thin cuts that had healed over. However, in death, the skin around the area was flushed pink, an indicator of the newly-healed skin in those areas. These incisions were, I am positive, carefully made by a medical instrument, most likely a scalpel, in order to go unnoticed. The only people with extensive knowledge of such instruments are doctors; if it was an ordinary serial killer, the cuts would be made haphazardly and would have ragged edges, as the murderer would most likely not care to be cautious. Not many doctors would become serial killers, and this area of London does not have many doctors; at most there are two or three near Baker Street…most prominently my partner Doctor John Watson. He lived on Baker Street, in my apartment at 221b owned by one Mrs. Hudson. The night of the murder, I was asleep and awaiting Watson's return from his practice. The doctor himself woke me up, washing his hands in the kitchen sink. I noticed a peculiar aroma- you remember my wonderful sense of smell- and realized the doctor's hands were _covered in blood_. Naturally, I assumed it was due to the fact that he had just finished with a surgery or some such operation, but also clinging to the doctor's clothes and person was a mild perfume, _such as that of a_ _woman_, and _he_ _had a scalpel in his pocket_. You may draw your own conclusions…but I myself know that Watson is a lover of torture; he draws amusement from watching others writhe in pain…I cannot tell you how I came across this information, but believe me when I tell you it is true. It is also necessary to say that not only was the doctor my partner, he was dearly beloved to me. I would have done anything for Watson- and I have done everything. I would not tell you this, but I am dead and nothing is left. I never told him goodbye, and I never wanted to. Do not mourn for me. Do not mourn for him. Mourn for London, and mourn for yourselves."

Lestrade put the telegram down on the desk and locked eyes with Clarkie, who was on the opposite side of the room. When he spoke, though, he addressed all of the officers present. "Suit up, boys…we're going to Baker Street."


	9. Awakening

**A/N: sorry for such a long delay, blame summer laziness and my girlfriend's departure to camp:( to make up for it, i've completed the story! hey, good things come to those who wait. so this is the end (insert Jim Morrison's voice here)...it's been great. thanks for so many reviews and so much support along the way! it made everything so much more exciting, and you really helped me motivate myself. i love you all 3 i don't know if i'm ever gonna write for this fandom again...but look out for my other work in the house md and star trek (TOS and Reboot) fandoms. that said, i now present the ninth and final installment of "Pain Like Drugs." i hope you like it, tell me what you think!**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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Watson paced angrily in the sitting room, not caring that his expensive shoes scraped against the cold wood floor. He was unrelenting. He felt hot, nearly feverish in his state; his mind was in overdrive, churning out ideas but disputing them as soon as they were created with a slight shake of his head. He didn't care what Mrs. Hudson thought anymore, what she heard. _Holmes is gone_, he thought to himself, anger bubbling and boiling in the pit of his stomach. _You killed him, you killed them all, you monster, they're going to get you, they're going to find you and they're going to get you_ the doctor's thoughts whirled around and around like a carousel controlled by the Devil himself. There was no escape. No possible solution presented itself.

If only Holmes were there to tell him what to do…Watson smiled bitterly and laughed, a hollow, empty sound echoing in the empty room. Maybe that was the solution. He had to talk to Holmes. His mouth twisted into a grimace, and he moved around the room, pushing furniture out of the way and clearing a space in the center. Once the job was done, Watson sat down in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth slightly and muttering to himself. The only coherent word that could be picked up every so often, if the listener was attentive, was "monster."

Lestrade gave the signal, and his men hurried across the wet street. It was pouring rain, and the policemen wanted nothing more than to finish this despicable job and go home to their families. The chief knocked on the door, and it was opened by an old woman who blanched at the sight of so many uniformed men on her doorstep. Lestrade gave her a quick explanation, and the woman looked quite surprised at his information, but she nodded and let them in, pointing to the top of the stairs where two of her most well-known boarders lived. Lestrade tipped his hat in gratitude, and then led his men up the stairs with Clarkie close behind him.

Lestrade knocked on the door to 221b Baker Street. There was no answer. He knocked louder, and again there was no response from the seemingly deserted apartment. Lestrade waved his hand behind him, and the other men moved a good distance back, as far as the staircase would allow. Lestrade backed up as well, and then he ran forward, throwing his shoulder forcefully into the heavy wooden door. There was a loud crack before the door gave way under the police chief's shoulder. Lestrade walked in cautiously, his men following, and looked around. No one could be seen. He nodded and they crept into the sitting room, where a grinning Watson awaited.

Lestrade showed no fear as he approached the doctor, who was, strangely, seated on the floor. "You're under arrest, doctor," he said cautiously as he stepped forward. "No, I don't think so," Watson said softly, halting the policeman in his tracks, the doctor's grin growing even wider. "You are under arrest," Lestrade continued, narrowing his eyes, "for the murders of three women, and the murder of the detective Sherlock Holmes."

Watson hissed, and his eyes got wide. Lestrade backed up a little. "_It's not murder if he wanted to die_," Watson spat through his teeth. "What do you know about the great detective? _Nothing_," he sneered. "Tell me," Lestrade said, inching forward, trying to distract the doctor. "Stay where you are," Watson snapped immediately. Lestrade froze. "I won't hurt you unless I have to," the policeman said, keeping his eyes on the ground so he wouldn't set off the doctor. Watson chuckled. "You can't hurt me," he said bitterly. "I'm past that. Past you. _You can't hurt me_," he hissed suddenly. He stood and twirled furiously, growling like an animal. He pulled out his scalpel and walked up to Lestrade, brandishing the instrument threateningly. "Put that away, Doctor," Lestrade said calmly. "No…of course you don't care if I threaten you…" Watson muttered. His eyes flew around the room, settling on Clarkie. Watson hummed in approval. "Sherlock always said…" Watson said with a smirk, glancing at Lestrade. The chief followed his gaze, and saw Clarkie. "No," he said. "Watson, no." Watson grinned evilly and walked towards Clarkie, who put his hands up. Every gun in the room suddenly turned to point at the doctor.

Watson stretched out the hand holding the scalpel towards the young policeman, and every finger on every gun tightened on their triggers. Watson's body was suddenly riddled with a thousand bullets. Watson stopped, looking down at his chest and then looking up to Lestrade. "It doesn't hurt," he whispered before raising his hand again towards Clarkie, but then changing its direction at the last second. He pointed the scalpel towards himself and dragged it across his own neck. Watson staggered and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, a ghostly smile burned onto his face.

The monster of 221b Baker Street was dead.

Lestrade moved towards Clarkie, whose face had a look of revulsion. "It's okay," Lestrade said quietly. He placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder as the other men took the body away. They left Baker Street and went back to the police station to finish their reports.

221b Baker Street was boarded up; Mrs. Hudson was unable to rent out the apartment to anyone, and when she died the entire building was gutted. Eventually the building was knocked down completely and a new one was built in its place, the troubles of old residents long since over.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were forgotten by London. Of course, there were whispered rumors and loud lamentations when people found out that they could no longer hire the greatest detective in London or that their favorite doctor was no longer in practice, but that was about all the recognition they got. Lestrade and Clarkie each got married to a rich woman, full of regret for what they could have had but even more full of respect for the law. They eventually stopped speaking. They never told anyone of the Baker Street murders, and the files were wrapped up and put away, where no one would ever read them. Every so often, a resident of the new 221 Baker Street claimed to hear distant screams, as if someone was in pain, but the claims were always very vague, and no one ever followed up on them. Subsequently, they went unnoticed.

No one would remember them until a fire burned down the police station, and the file appeared in a pile of ash, mysteriously unharmed. The chief of police looked at it, read it through, and put it away carefully in a safe at his home. He went out walking, and found himself at the entrance to a back alley next to the apartments at 221Baker Street that, he knew, had once housed two men who used to be famous throughout all of London. He walked down the alley and saw an old, tattered sack, dirty and stained, ripped in some places, leaning against the wall. He picked it up, and it crumbled to dust in his hands, scattering a few flakes of ash to the wind. There was a soft noise, almost like a sigh, and then the man shook his head in bemusement and walked home. No one ever complained about screaming again, and the police never did figure out what it had been, but the chief had a few suspicions which he kept to himself.

London opened its eyes. The nightmare was over.


End file.
